Cecidit Angelus
by Ice Queen1
Summary: When Lucifer is picked up wandering the highway alone at night with no memory of who he is or how he got there, he's brought to a mental hospital. The poor staff has no idea what to make of him, and unfortunately, neither does he. Another patient by the name of Constantine may be able to help - or maybe he's just as crazy as he is.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: EDITED. The villain/bad guys for this story totally got reworked into something I like considerably more, so it's not that a LOT has changed, more like keywords.

So fighting writer's block on my other Lucifer story and my Left Behind request fic, I accidentally wrote this. My bad, yo. I should also probably try and sleep at some point...

Pfft. Sleep is for the weak.

* * *

It was cold. He didn't remember it being so cold. It invaded his senses, permeated his skin and leached into his bones until he felt like he was made of ice. His teeth had stopped chattering long ago, which was a welcome respite. His jaw still ached.

He tried not to think about it. He only had energy enough for one thing, and walking was considerably more worthwhile than concentrating on the various other things that should still hurt but don't.

He didn't think about it, and his mind went blissfully blank.

The lights of the city twinkled in the distance, barely visible through the low hanging smog even though it was the dead of night and he thought he'd never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life.

His bare feet hit with a slight slap with every step, uneven and arrhythmic on the pavement. It was probably a good thing that he'd lost feeling in them around the same time his teeth stopped chattering. They looked more like raw meat thanks to the unforgiving scrub of vast desert he'd awoken in. It had taken him ages to find the road. He'd lost track of how many times he'd fallen, tripping over something in the dark that brought him to his hands and knees, only barely managing to catch himself before he wound up face first in the dirt.

He'd seen few sets of headlights in the hours he'd been trudging alongside the road, but he'd stayed far to the side and out of sight every time he heard the approach of a motor. He didn't really understand why there was a sudden, gnawing and nameless dread that settled in his head, making it spin dizzyingly at the thought of being found. Didn't understand, but listened anyway.

So he kept walking, eyes fixated on the distant city lights that were growing closer with every passing hour.

He was concentrating so hard on the necessary mechanics of walking, of making sure he picked his feet up high enough so that he didn't drag the tops of his feet against the road, trying to force each individual muscle to contract and expand and move and propel him forwards that he didn't hear the car when it made its first pass. He hardly even registered the red taillights, like glowing embers in the darkness as they started to move away from him, heading in the same direction of the city.

There was a familiar chirp of a brief siren and a flash of blue lights, and taillights disappeared as the police car slowly swung around.

The crunch of gravel made him wince. The car hadn't continued on. Which meant it had stopped for him. He'd come so far. He didn't think he could do it a second time. He stumbled to a halt, his foot dragging slightly behind him as he tried to keep his balance.

The city lights that seemed so close minutes before seemed to stretch out to the end of a black void – he'd been so close. He didn't even know why _there_ mattered, but it did. He needed to get to those lights. He could've made it if he hadn't stopped, but now that he had…all he could think of was how bone tired exhausted he was.

He didn't even have the energy or strength to lift his hand up to block the sudden spotlight in his face, awashing his vision in radiant white.

There were voices. Two of them. He thought they were speaking to him but they came in garbled, like half a transmission and he had no idea what they were saying.

Someone stepped in close, briefly blocking the all-consuming brightness, and he couldn't help the half step backwards. He would've gone further, but he didn't think he could.

Besides. He'd spent the whole night moving forwards. He wasn't about to walk any further _away_ from his goal than he had to, because that meant he would have to take that many more steps.

And he was so tired already, he didn't dare close his eyes, even to shut out the light.

"Sir?"

He felt himself sway.

"Sir, can you hear me?"

The words were clear, but the person wasn't.

"Sir, are you okay?"

He actually laughed at that, or tried to at least. It came out as a weak chuffing noise, more air than sound. As his lips curled up in a smile, he felt them split and tear, and he cringed. They were dryer than he thought.

"He looks like he's on drugs," a new voice said from behind him.

He took offense to that. He was not on drugs…at least, he didn't think…

"No, Tom, come around here. Take a look at him," the blur in front of him said. "That's not drugs, that looks like shock. And look at his feet." A thin blob moved away from the larger one and gestured at his feet. He shifted self-consciously.

"Jesus, he barely has any left."

"What the hell is that on his hand?" First voice again.

"I can't tell. See if you can approach him, I'm going to call for an ambulance."

He didn't really want an ambulance. Home was just a little further. If he could just start walking again, he could keep going. He would make it before dawn. At least…he was fairly sure home was in the city.

"Hey, buddy, you're going to feel my hand on your right, okay? I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to see."

While he had been looking over at the horizon where he could see the city in the distance, the blur had moved closer. He didn't really mind though. It didn't hurt so much anymore…not with all the other things that seemed to hurt just a little bit more. And they weren't touching it. Touching it hurt. Especially when he tripped and had to catch himself.

Cautious fingers gently grasped his wrist, turning his hand palm side up and towards the floodlight behind him. It was a slightly awkward angle, but it didn't hurt.

"What the hell is that?"

"It looks like…a brand?" the second voice was back, but it was standing behind him. "What did he do, escape from a cult? Cattle rustlers?"

"There's nothing around for miles, where could he come from?"

"I wouldn't touch it until the paramedics get here. Who the hell knows what it is? It looks…painful, anyways. They're gonna have to debride it when he gets to the hospital."

The blur moved his hand again, turning it over so it was palm down, before reaching for his other hand. It was the same gentle grip, like they thought he was going to shatter. He thought that was a fair assumption. The longer he stood, the more tired he became. He started to sway.

"Whoa, there buddy, don't fall. You'll hurt yourself even more," the second voice said.

"Can you sit down?"

He blinked. Could he? He didn't have much time to ponder the idea, his legs apparently decided they didn't need his input before they tried it. His knees collapsed, his legs folding in on themselves. He was sure he was going to hit the ground, but the grip that was formerly gently gripping his hands were now underneath his arms, holding him up.

"Jesus!" the voice grunted near his ear, and despite his efforts, he couldn't move his head to look at the face that went with it. His assistant would have to remain faceless.

"Look at his arms." The second voice sounded in awe. No, shocked was a better phrase.

Now that he was sitting, albeit on the sandy shoulder of a highway, exhaustion hit him full force. Now he _knew_ he couldn't make it home tonight. There was no way he could rationalize to himself that he could get up, let alone take another step.

The blur hadn't moved yet, their arms still firmly around his back, supporting him in the awkward position, one leg folded underneath himself and the other stuck out to the side. It was nice, just to sit there with his head against the other's shoulder. If the blur hadn't moved away, he was pretty sure he would've fallen asleep right then and there. As the body moved away from him, he made a small noise of protest without even thinking about it.

"It's ok, I'm not going anywhere. I'm gonna look at your arms again, ok? You're going to feel my hands on your lower arm again, ok? I'm not going to hurt you."

He nodded, but immediately decided that was a bad idea when the world suddenly swam out of focus, even more so that before. The city lights in the distance swirled insanely for a moment, and he shut his eyes against it.

"Hey, stay with us, ok?" the first voice was back. "The paramedics are on their way, you can sleep then, all right?"

He inclined his head slightly in response. The dizzy feeling still hadn't gone away and he didn't think throwing up on the blur trying to help him would've been that appropriate.

"What the hell are those?" the second voice asked. There was a feather light touch on his wrist. "Those are some spectacular bruises."

"It looks like he got into a fight with Mike Tyson _and_ the bad guys from all four _Rocky_ movies. Holy hell, buddy, did you at least get in some swings of your own?" There was a pause. "Looks like he took a blow to the back of the head, too. That's…a lot of…uh. Yeah. You're going to be fine, buddy."

"He's abrasions on his knuckles, too. Least he probably fought back…might be able to get something from underneath his nails."

"Least we know he didn't do it to himself," the first voice said. "Where the hell are those paramedics? They said they were only five minutes out."

He could feel himself drifting. He'd allowed himself to go so long without considering what shape his body was in that the list of his injuries were beginning to worry him.

The next thing he knew the first voice was back again. "I can't get him to wake up fully. He was conscious, but not really aware of anything when we first got here. He hasn't reacted to anything we've done so far."

Behind closed lids (when did he shut his eyes?), he could see swirls of red and blue. The motion of the colors was oddly comforting and strangely familiar.

"He looks in rough shape. You say you just found him walking along the highway?"

"Yeah, we drove by at first, we didn't see him that far off the side of the road, but my partner caught something out of the corner of his eye, so we stopped and turned on the spotlight. We called it in, and you know everything else."

He felt a well of laughter bubbling up again, but he didn't even have the energy to crack a sardonic grin. Oh how wrong they were.

Or perhaps how right.

He didn't even know what he was doing in the desert in the first place. It was simply the first thing he could recall – lying face up, staring at the slowly darkening sky above him as night fell and the temperature plummeted, the sand leaching the warmth from his skin.

"Sir, can you speak?"

He licked his lips, tasting sand and salt and copper and his mouth remained dry as the desert he'd crawled out of.

"Did you offer him any water?"

First voice spoke again, and he idly wished he had a name to go with it. "He didn't seem like he was with it enough to drink anything without choking."

Ouch. Harsh words. He wasn't _that_ bad, was he? He bit down sharply, tasting blood and wetting his lips even as the voices shouted in protest. He moved his lips, ignoring the sting of newly torn flesh as he tried to speak but still managed only a puff of air.

Perhaps whetting his lips was not enough to have a voice.

As the ground suddenly dipped, it occurred to him that he was lying flat. Not only was he lying down, but he was on something soft. Ish. There was a clack of metal, and he felt himself moving without any effort on his part.

There were more voices than before, and he only had one name. It was going to be hard keeping track of them now. At least there were only two before. Now there was voice one through four.

"Did you find an ID on him?" New voice.

"No, he doesn't even have pockets." Tom, former voice number one.

"What's our ETA?"

"Ten minutes."

Okay, that was too many new voices, and he didn't like how their shadows were hovering over him. The light was bright white now, and it reminded him of a place he'd rather forget entirely.

He tried to move his left arm, but someone grabbed it and pushed it down gently.

"Try not to move, sir, you'll disturb the IV."

His eyes flew open. White light blinded him, and he couldn't see, but that didn't stop him from struggling to pull his arm loose.

"Sir, calm down!" a new voice ordered as a rough hand grasped his flailing arm.

That nameless dread that told him to stay off the roads seized his heart, and there was a sudden screech of something electronic.

The crippling exhaustion was gone, replaced with a sudden rush of adrenaline that had him surging up, pulling away from the restraints that had held him down. There were too many lights, too many hands, and too many voices and he couldn't remember why so many of them were bad.

He needed darkness. He was safe in the dark and he lunged forwards, hands clawing at the doors that trapped him in the terrible, blinding light.

"Hold him!"

"I'm _trying_!"

Hands on his shoulders tried to push him back, but he was stronger, driven by the will to live and a primal, visceral need to get away from the invasive light.

Something sharp pierced his thigh through the flimsy hospital scrub fabric, so unexpectedly that he yelped in surprise.

The hands he'd so easily shoved away before now pinned him back against the gurney, the adrenaline that fueled him ebbing.

"There we go," a voice said, trying for soothing and sounding relieved instead. A hand patted his thigh where they'd stabbed him moments before and he flinched.

"Don't worry," the second voice assured. "Once we get you the hospital, we'll be able to call your family."

The bright lights above him started to dim, and he hazily tried to conjure up a memory of someone he called family.

All he could see were those damned lights, blocking everything out.

He felt like he was falling, and strangely enough, that was the closest thing to familiarity he'd experienced since waking.

The disturbing thought followed him into the void.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: EDITED. I decided I wanted to make a different villain in this story, and I think it will work out considerably better. Not a lot has changed, but more like...keywords.

I'm veering a little away from the headcanon I had going on with the world/rules in Damnatio. It doesn't really show here, but for what I have planned, it's probably going to come into play at a later date. Read and review! EDIT: Someone asked when this takes place - it's kind of an A/U, because I'm going to put it right around #TeamLucifer/St. Lucifer. In this, Malcolm knows about Lucifer, but he hasn't had it out with Dan. Soo...sort of between the two episodes, but without Dan getting choked out in the episode and breaking up with Chloe (because I need it for the story I have in mind).

Also - sorry. I don't particularly *like* romance, so it comes through in anything I attempt to write as such, so this is just a Lucifer/Chloe Friendship thing. If you really want it to be a romance, you could probably interpret it that way, but I kind like Dan, so I'm not making him into a bad guy.

* * *

"You met the new guy yet?" Randy asked, dropping his bag next to hers and reaching for the half empty coffee pot.

The nurses' lounge was fairly empty at this time of morning, with everyone caught in the middle of shift change. Night crew was relating pass down information to oncoming day, and the ones who worked the weekend were busy with the shift doctors. Usually, it consisted of the new faces, patient moves and altered behavior or medication that the oncoming shift needed to know about, but Olivia's direct supervisor was busy with night on-call doctor. Something that required a more in depth conversation than the monotonous routine warranted.

Olivia didn't have to meet with anyone, because she wasn't a nurse – simply administrative help for Dr. Garner, who oversaw the whole wing during the week. All she had to do with her files is properly categorize and put them in the appropriate cabinet.

Olivia glanced up from her piles of folders, raising an eyebrow. "Which one? Full moon is out, we have like…seven." She flipped through the folders. "Scratch that. Eight. We have _eight_ new ones."

"The one that highway patrol picked up Friday night," Randy clarified, rifling through her stack until he pulled the one second from the bottom. "This guy."

She shook her head, taking a sip from her coffee mug. "No, Randy, I have not. Do you know why? Because I had the weekend off."

Randy chuckled. "Yeah, sure, rub it in. I would've thought Mary would've sent you a text for sure."

"Even if she did, I turned my phone off. It was my first vacation in _years_ , Randy." She glared at him over the rim of her mug. " _Years_."

"Yeah, but you always had a soft spot for the X-files, and this guy…" Randy tapped the cover of the unopened file. "He takes the cake."

Now her curiosity was piqued. "I'll bite. What's his deal?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter and reaching for the folder.

"Total retrograde amnesia," Randy said. "Like Jason Bourne."

Olivia scoffed, "The odds of it being true retrograde is like a million in one."

Randy nodded, as he put 8 cubes of sugar into his mug before pouring the rest of the coffee on top, watching as the cubes dissolved. "Yeah, I know. But that's what the docs swear he has. I overheard one of them talking about it. Apparently he doesn't remember anything before Friday night."

She flipped the folder open, finishing off the last of her coffee before setting the empty mug down.

"Wow," she said, staring at the intake photo. "You're right – I'm surprised Mary didn't send me a picture."

The man had obviously once been extremely handsome. Short, thick dark hair and almost black eyes and he apparently couldn't stop smiling for the photo – though it looked more like a devilish grin than an actual smile, like he was trying to make the photographer laugh while they took it. But Olivia was looking beneath the five o'clock shadow he had – the dark bruising along his jaw, the thin and pulled features on his face that gave him the appearance of shell shock. It wasn't helping that he'd ruptured the blood vessels in one of his eyes, turning the white of it angry red that followed to the dark, heavy bruising and scrapes along the side of his head. He may be smiling, but to her he looked…sad.

"You'll like him," Randy said, taking the seat opposite her. "Everyone does. Even the other patients."

 _That_ raised an eyebrow. "Even Mrs. Douglas?"

Randy snorted coffee by accident as he choked, trying not to spit it all over Olivia has he laughed. "Oh, _especially_ her. That man is apparently like catnip to half the people here, and it seems to work on _everyone_ , not just the women."

"Even on you?" Olivia asked playfully.

Randy almost slammed his coffee mug down in his enthusiasm. "Dude, _for real_ – that guy has mad game, and he doesn't even know it. It's like he just can't help but flirt with _everyone…_ and you don't even realize it when he's talking to you until suddenly you're thinking that yeah, yeah I _am_ damn fine. And he's got the accent, so that helps with a lot of the residents."

"Accent?" Olivia echoed.

Randy took a cautious sip of his coffee before answering. "Yeah. He's from Britain or Ireland or somewhere."

That explained Mrs. Douglas. She often quoted her ideal man was Mr. Darcy – which apparently was anyone with a British accent.

"They file a missing persons report?"

Randy smiled briefly. "Yeah. But you know how long it takes to get those back. Hell, we're holding him longer than we even should as it stands – I mean, normally it's patch up whatever is wrong with them and send them on their way. We can't hold anyone like this is some sort of prison…but I think the docs feel bad for him."

Olivia raised a questioning eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Apparently the reason why they're hanging on to him for now is they think he's a victim of violent crime," Randy said, polishing off the rest of his coffee. "I didn't get specifics, but they're probably in his file."

Olivia's eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline. "They're holding him as _evidence_?"

Randy shrugged. "I think it's the only thing they can think of to keep from having to toss him out. Unless he suddenly decides to turn violent, but I don't see that happening. He's…" Randy trailed off. "You know how most people ignore me?"

Olivia nodded. Randy wasn't a nurse and he wasn't a doctor. He was a part time pharmacist, part jack of all trades. Thanks to budget cuts, everyone was doing double duty, and they were always overworked and undermanned, so when he wasn't handing out medications, he often fixed whatever needed it – lights, sinks, squeaky chairs…anything that needed it. Nobody really paid him any mind. He was just sort of a part of the background that everyone overlooked, and that included most of the residents.

"He doesn't. He's like a cat – he's always trying to get into things and he always follows me around if he's out of his room and I have stuff to do. It's like a little kid – he's always asking what I'm doing, and if I'm not paying him enough attention, he'll break something, or knock whatever is closest to him off the table. He's actually like one of the most generally happy people I've ever seen. Here, or otherwise." Randy's mouth turned up into a grin the more he talked, and Olivia could tell he really liked the guy.

"I'll be sure to pop my head in and tell him hello for you," she promised, holding up a closed fist with a pinky out. "Pinky swear."

"You'll like him," Randy said, the grin unfading. "I know you will."

Olivia didn't bother to point out she had very little interaction with the patients outside of their paperwork, because Randy already knew. His enthusiasm was hard to ignore though, and she found it rather endearing. "Have the police already come by?"

Randy waved his hand. "Nah. Well, the guys who picked him up off one of the access roads to highway 91 processed him, but no one took any statements or anything. Someone from LAPD is supposed to be coming in to talk to him though." He glanced at his watch and swore quietly. "Hey, I gotta get going, Liv. I'll see you at shift turn over, right?"

Olivia nodded, waving him off. "Go. I need to get all of these filed anyway."

As Randy left, she glanced back down at the folder on the table in front of her. The haunted face of the unknown man stared back at her, and she carefully flipped to the second page.

No matter how many files she read, no matter the acts of cruelty she witnessed, she was always amazed at mans' capacity for cruelty to one another. The photos of the man on intake were clinical, the stark contrast of the flash used did nothing to hide the level of violence he'd obviously suffered through.

There were pictures and x-rays and CT scans – no wonder he hadn't been released yet. It must have taken most of the weekend to get all the tests done. Pictures of raw nail beds on long, elegant fingers were sandwiched in between x-rays of fractured knuckles.

Her eyes flicked over the summary report. White male, 6'3'', brown hair, brown eyes. Brought in with severe anemia, dehydration, innumerable superficial cuts and scrapes on his hands and legs. Lacerations on his feet that had been stitched and bandaged. Severe head trauma, but no intracranial bleeding. No ID, but he'd been fingerprinted and DNA swabbed on intake.

She closed the folder, unable and unwilling to read more. From the way Randy described John Doe, she didn't want to picture anyone inflicting that kind of damage on someone like him.

"Hey, Liv?"

She looked up sharply at the sound of her name. "Yes, doctor?"

Dr. Garner smiled tiredly. "Could you give me a hand with the new patient? The John Doe in room five?"

She frowned slightly. "Uh, sure. Do you want me to call one of the orderlies?"

Dr. Garner shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that. Come on."

)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*

"You speak another language, right?" Dr. Garner asked as he buzzed them through the common area doors.

The hospital was laid out so that there were several checkpoints that required visual confirmation and a card swipe to get through the doors, but otherwise it didn't look much different than any other hospital wing. The walls were a soothing beige (taupe, to be precise, but it always made her think of Ocean's 11), and the common area was set up like a casual living room, complete with mismatched furniture. The windows allowed plenty of sun, and there were several areas for the patients to participate in different hobbies if they desired.

Just beyond the common room was another security checkpoint, and then the row of individual rooms where the patients spent the nights – unless, for whatever reason, they were confined to their rooms. Usually their choice, but sometimes they had to use it as the equivalent of an adult time out.

It was that hallway they were heading down now.

"Um, a little? I know random bits and phrases from my grandmother, and three years of high school Spanish, but that's about it. Why?" she asked.

Dr. Garner pulled out his key card, sliding it through the reader at the door to room five. "Just an experiment I want to try out. Good morning," he greeted his newest patient. "How are you this morning?"

Olivia felt her job drop in surprise.

The man before her was obviously the same man from the file, but the difference was almost night and day. He was clean shaven, making him appear several years younger, and apparently his stay at the hospital had been extremely beneficial – the dark circles under his eyes were gone, the superficial scrapes that marred his cheeks in the pictures were almost gone, and his dark eyes no longer held the emptiness of shock.

But that grin…Olivia felt her cheeks flush. That devilish grin was the same.

"Very well," the man said easily. He was sitting in the corner of his window on the sill, balanced precariously on the narrow edge that Olivia wouldn't have believed was wide enough for someone his size. His knees were drawn up almost to his chin to accommodate his height, but he looked perfectly happy where he was.

"Good, good. My name is Dr. Garner, I run the floor during the week. Dr. Guneta explained your situation to me, and I thought I would come and introduce myself and make sure you were doing all right."

The man shrugged indifferently, but still smiled. "If you're wondering if I suddenly remember my name, the answer is no. Regrettably. Any luck on your end?"

Dr. Garner chuckled, scribbling a note onto his paper. "No, unfortunately our end is a little slow. But good news is that someone from LAPD is coming by to interview you this morning. Think you're up for visitors?"

The wicked grin broadened into an actual smile. "I'm _always_ up for visitors." His dark eyes slid to Olivia, as if noticing her for the first time. "Hello there. Don't be shy. I don't bite."

She hadn't realized she was slowly shifting herself so she was almost behind Dr. Garner instead of beside him. She felt her cheeks flush bright red again.

Randy hadn't been wrong. There was _something_ about the man that made her feel almost... _euphoric_. She was absurdly happy that he was smiling, and smiling at _her_ with that devilish grin.

And no man should look that good barefoot and in hospital issued scrubs.

"This is Liv, my assistant. I was wondering if you would like to play a game of sorts," Dr. Garner said, introducing her. "It'll just be a moment, but Dr. Guneta said you were particularly good with languages. Would you mind demonstrating?"

John Doe's smile dimmed for a fraction of a moment, but she couldn't understand why.

"Yes," he said, sounding tired. "She seemed particularly fascinated by that."

Dr. Garner glanced over at Olivia, gesturing slightly with his head. "Go on, Liv. Any phrase you can remember from your grandmother."

Olivia felt like she was in junior high all over again, trying to muster the courage to look at David Altobelli, the cute boy in art class that she'd had a crush on since she was eight. Her mind went blank trying to remember any of the phrases her grandmother used to say, when she suddenly blurted out: " _Faire i gcomhair gluaisteán_."

Really, brain? 'Watch for cars?' That was the best you could do?

John Doe seemed to find it entertaining though, because he chuckled. " _Ní dóigh liom go bhfuil mé a bheith buartha faoi thrácht ar bhóithre i anseo, a dhéanann tú_?"

She shook her head absently. She didn't know all the words, but she knew enough that he was laughing at the idea of having to worry about traffic in here.

"Very impressive," Dr. Garner said, and she could hear the sincerity in his voice. Apparently, so could their patient, because he relaxed fractionally. "Dr. Guneta said she tried half of Google translate to see how many you knew and apparently you knew all of them. But still nothing about your personal life?"

John Doe shrugged, almost managing to seem casual about having no memory of himself. "Not so much as a first initial. I remember…things, and the world around me. I'm not a total blank slate, which I suppose I should be grateful for, but no. As far as I'm concerned…I was dropped into existence at nightfall three days ago in the middle of a desert."

"Well, the officers who saw you and called the EMS, they said you looked like you'd had a pretty rough go of it. It's not uncommon for people who've experienced a trauma to block out the memory of the incident itself – or the events leading up to it, or even a bit after it. Usually, given time, the memories come back on their own."

John Doe _did_ laugh at that, before he waved to his own face. "Apparently the first thirty or so years of my life were pretty traumatic then, wouldn't you say?"

Dr. Garner chuckled. "Well, that's one way to look at it. I haven't had a chance to look at any of your blood panels or scans, so I don't know if anything showed up on them to explain that."

The man looked thoughtful for a moment, grin faltering slightly before he spoke. "I don't remember _my_ name…but I do remember _a_ name."

"Oh?"

"Chloe," he answered. "Just Chloe."

"Do you think she's a family member? Possibly a girlfriend, or a wife?"

He shook his head, chewing absently on his lower lip. "No…no, I don't think so. But she's important."

Dr. Garner nodded, before offering an apologetic smile. "You wouldn't by any chance happen to remember her last name, would you?"

John Doe snorted in derision. "Nothing so convenient. I don't even remember a face to go with it."

"Well, I just wanted to stop in and say hello, make sure that you knew who I was…just in case something comes to mind, or you feel like talking about anything else. Randy said you seemed to like company. Liv here will be at the front desk, and all you have to do is ask one of the orderlies to make a call, and she'll come find me. Okay?"

The man nodded, his grin looking more forced than natural. "Of course."

*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*

"He seems pleasant, doesn't he?" Olivia said as they walked back through the common room back to Dr. Garner's office.

"Yes, yes, he does. Amala said that the whole staff seemed to like him. There is _something_ about him," he agreed.

Olivia wondered if he meant that high school crush effect he seemed to have going on, but she didn't dare voice it.

"Huh," Garner said as they approached the front desk. "He's here earlier than I expected."

A man stood at the desk, standing cockeyed as he leaned heavily on the counter. Dark blonde hair that was bordering on too long and a moustache that might have been in style in the late 70's clashed with her idea of a detective. But sure enough, on his belt and clearly visible was the gold shield for LAPD.

"You must be the detective from the police department," Dr. Garner said, sticking out his hand in welcome. "Forgive me, I wasn't expecting you for several more hours. I'm Dr. John Garner, and this is my assistant, Olivia Fickett."

"Detective Malcolm Graham," the man greeted, taking Garner's hand in a firm shake. "

"Sorry about showing up this early," Detective Graham apologized. "The description of your patient sounded an awful lot like a missing persons case we're working, and the higher ups thought I should come check it out as soon as possible."

"Sure, sure. Understandable. I assume the ward security already discussed with you what you are and aren't allowed to bring into the wing?"

The detective pulled his jacket back, revealing no weapons, and pulled up his sleeves to show he wasn't wearing any loose jewelry, watches or rings.

"Excellent. This way please," Garner said, motioning for him to follow.

As they walked, Garner talked, telling him about John Doe and what they'd already discovered, and what the admitting officers had already filed.

"Actually, it's kind of funny," he said, waiting for the nurse to buzz open the door to the common room. "We were just talking to him, and he mentioned the name Chloe. You wouldn't happen to know anyone with that name, would-"

" _Lucifer_?" Detective Graham said incredulously, stopping dead in his tracks.

John Doe had ventured out of his room, sitting on the same narrow sill of the common room window, a worn paperback in his hands. At the sound of the detective's whispered question, he glanced up, and for a moment, Olivia felt a surge of hope that he perhaps recognized him, too.

"Who the hell is Lucifer?"

* * *

So anyone who had read this, and has read Damnatio Memoriae, you can probably tell that I just can't help Avengers references. Well, I can help them, but I choose not to. They're like itty, bitty crossovers, and they amuse me.

It also might be the lack of sleep talking. Anyway. Not that it was much of a mystery before, but yes! John Doe from Chapter 1 is in fact Lucifer.

Annnd...it's 2:30AM again. One day, sleep shall be mine. MINE, I TELL YOU. BUT TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY. OR NIGHT, APPARENTLY! Anyway, read and review! It's a favorite thing of mine to wake up to an inbox filled with fanfiction review notifications.

PS: Hello, LadyMarianne123, Beautiful Depravity, PoorInnocentBystander (and others) Nice to see you guys again!I do like familiar faces (pen names)


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Do you know what happens when you start a story because you get stuck on another one? You don't choose subject matter wisely and you wind up in even MORE of a bind because reality has rules. So, thanks to UpQuark for helping with this because thanks to her, I learned a new fun fact: Military mental institutions have VERY different rules from civilian. So, since all I have is experience with the military side of things...I am totally making this up as I go along. Protocols are invented, reality is bent to my will, and I sincerely doubt any of you would be interested in reading a story that had to strictly adhere to the guidelines of California's mental health facilities. However - if I'm wrong about that - I now have a handy dandy link to ALL THE RULES FOR INPATIENT PROCESSING.

Fanfiction: where the facts are made up, and reality doesn't matter.

Tally ho!

* * *

The detective shook his head. "Sorry, sorry…my wife's been on me about not taking the Lord's name in vain when I curse, so, ah…we agreed that randomly yelling out 'Lucifer' was less of an issue with the public than 'Satan'." He chuckled nervously, and Olivia wondered if the LAPD just didn't care about their mysterious patient and sent over a detective as punishment.

Olivia shot the detective a questioning look. Seriously, guy?

John Doe didn't look pacified, and Olivia had to hide a grin. He looked like an indignant bird, and she could just imagine him with literal ruffled feathers.

"So…you're telling me my appearance elicits cursing?" John glanced down at himself in his hospital scrubs. "I look considerably better than I did two days ago…"

The detective chuckled, running a hand through his shaggy hair, smirking in what was probably supposed to be an apology. "Yeah, dude. That's just it – they sent us a SITREP on you, and it sounded like you'd been through the ringer. You look…" The detective shrugged, and Olivia could understand his earlier reaction. She'd been surprised too, when she'd seen him in person after seeing the intake profile.

John hummed happily to himself, as if pleased to hear there was a consensus on his appearance. "I look marvelous, don't I?"

Without thinking, Olivia nodded and then blushed violently, ducking her head so Dr. Garner couldn't see but there were several chorused replies from female patients – and two males.

John didn't seem to mind – in fact, he seemed to relish in the attention, and winked over at Mrs. Douglas who'd made an impressive wolf whistle. "Later, darling."

 _Oh. My. God_ , Olivia thought, trying so hard and failing so miserably at not laughing. The man was like cat nip. _Infectious_ , even.

"Can I keep the name?" John asked abruptly.

"What name?" Dr. Garner said curiously.

"Lucifer," the man said, smiling even as he said it. "I like it."

Dr. Garner grimaced. "I don't know that it's what I would call…an _appropriate_ name."

John raised an eyebrow. "But a generic name used primarily for unclaimed corpses in the morgue is acceptable?"

Dr. Garner shrugged. "Well, no…but Lucifer is also the common name for the Devil in Christian faith. Are you _sure_ you want to have a name equated with evil?"

"Lucifer means 'light bearer', actually," Olivia piped up. "Or 'morning star'." When Dr. Garner shot an incredulous look over at her, she vaguely indicated the tiny silver cross around her neck. "Twenty-seven years of attending church on Sundays. Some of it was bound to sink in."

John smiled again, like she had just given him the moon, and she offered a shy grin.

"I remember…I remember _falling_ ," John said, scratching at the back of his head. "And I have this vague memory of shooting stars above me, when I woke up." His hand fluttered absently, and again Olivia was reminded of a bird's wings. "I think I'd prefer to be known as a falling star than an unclaimed body…no matter _how_ accurate that last one is."

Dr. Garner shrugged again. "If that's what you want, Lucifer. I have to admit… _I_ don't like calling patients John Doe."

Detective Graham coughed politely into his hand. "Not to uh, break up the party, but I suppose I should probably get on with my interview, huh? You guys got like a spare room we can use, or an office?" The detective looked back at Lucifer, who frowned back at him.

There was something about the detective that made Olivia's skin crawl, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Maybe because he looked like the standard 70's police show bad guys? But that wasn't all of it. There was something in the way he looked around himself – cold, calculating, but also like he was expecting something to go wrong and he was going to need a quick escape.

She shook herself. She was reading too much into it. A lot of people weren't comfortable in the institute. Even people who _knew_ the patients personally weren't always at their best when they came to visit.

"Of course," Dr. Garner said, gesturing with a swing of his arm at his office. "You're more than welcome to use mine."

Olivia was about to leave and go back to her mountains of paperwork that were certainly accruing by now, but Dr. Garner waved at her to follow.

"Do you want me to take notes?" Olivia whispered. She had training as a nurse, yes, but it really wasn't her job description, and she was already letting her emotions get the better of her with this patient. It wasn't good for either of them, and if she was being honest, why she preferred paperwork. People were messy. Notes were neat.

"If it will help you feel better, but no, that's not why I want you to come in with us. Surely you've noticed – he reacts better to women than he does to men. I'd prefer not to keep him alone in a room with only two other males. If you want, I can get Nancy, but I'm trying to be as subtle as I can about it," Dr. Garner whispered back.

Olivia nodded mutely, her hand going to her apron pocket for her notepad. It was for prescriptions, but as long as neither the detective or Lucifer noticed, it wouldn't matter. At least she wouldn't be sitting there empty handed.

)*)*)*)*)*)

Dr. Garner's office was fairly inviting, Olivia thought. It was a sunny yellow, and most of the art on the walls were canvas abstract paintings that most of his patients seemed to enjoy as impromptu Rorschach tests. No traditional chaise lounge while Dr. Garner asked vague questions and jotted notes from his chair. Instead, there was a pillow top sofa (which he flat out admitted he got because he liked to nap in the afternoons on his lunch break), two arm chairs, a few drawings from his kids when they were in elementary school on the wall, and a flourishing philodendron that was trying to break its way through the window from its pot on the bookshelf. There was a Bose set if someone wanted music, and an mp3 player at the ready, and there were M&M's in a small bowl on the coffee table between the doctor's desk and the other seats.

Detective Graham went after the candy like a man starving, and Lucifer stared at him, caught between disgust and curiosity.

Even Olivia couldn't help staring, even though she knew it was rude. She was surprised the man didn't choke.

Feeling eyes on him, the detective paused, glancing around sheepishly, before swallowing whatever was in his mouth whole…like a snake. "Sorry," he apologized, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth and then on his jeans. "I haven't had lunch yet, and I'm _starving_."

"What's that like?" Lucifer asked abruptly, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his closed hands.

Graham looked at him suspiciously. "What?"

"Starving," Lucifer said. His headed cocked to one side, and again Olivia couldn't help but think of a bird. "I'm still getting used to concepts, and humans seem to have a lot of words that mean different things, even when they're the same words. Like 'hunger'. You're hungry for food. You hunger _for_ someone. You're starving. You're starved for attention. Are humans just orally fixated, or do you actually consume each other?"

Olivia could see Dr. Garner writing quick, concise notes on his pad without taking his eyes off of Lucifer while Graham floundered for an answer.

She could see the detective struggling with the bluntness of the question, but she wasn't so much concerned about the directness. It was his wording. In four sentences, he'd completely removed himself from the human race.

"We can discuss that later, if you want Lucifer," Dr. Garner said mildly. "I'm sure Detective Graham's area of expertise isn't the development of human language, and he can't stay all day."

Lucifer's gaze flickered back to Dr. Garner momentarily, assessing. Finally, he sighed reluctantly, and pushed himself back into the chair he'd picked. "All right. Deal. And I'll hold you to it."

Detective Graham looked relieved to not be on the spot for the moment, and he pulled his own pad of paper out, already covered in haphazard notes that Olivia would be hard pressed to decipher, and she could read doctors' handwriting without batting an eye.

"So. Uh, _Lucifer_ ," he began, smiling like it was a joke and Olivia fought the urge to slap him. Lucifer didn't seem bothered though. "What can you tell me about where you were picked up? The report from highway patrol said you were pretty much in the middle of nowhere."

Lucifer shrugged, picking absently at imaginary lint on the chair. "Not much. It was dark. It was cold. I couldn't even tell you the direction I came from because the stars look wrong."

Graham nodded, scribbling away at his notepad. "Did you see any houses? Anything that might have been a clue? Do you remember if there was a mountain range, or if it was just flat?"

Lucifer closed his eyes, one hand lifted like he was about to conduct an orchestra, head tilted to the side. Slowly, he drew his hand in a ragged up and down line. "A…dark line against the sky," he offered as explanation. "Not high enough for mountains I don't think. Sharp rocks. No trees. No lights."

"Highway patrol also said you came in with a fair amount of injuries," Graham said. "A lot of them were explained by where they found you – scratches and abrasions from falling repeatedly, your feet torn to shreds…"

Olivia saw Lucifer curl his toes reflexively even as he grimaced at the memory of it.

"But you also had some other injuries that could _not_ be explained by wandering around in the desert. Any memories of those?"

Lucifer rubbed at the back of his neck, and shook his head wordlessly.

Graham tapped his pencil against his knee. "Has _anything_ seemed familiar since you were picked up? People, places, smells, sights…"

Lucifer glanced around the room, frowning, before suddenly standing and moving over to the sofa that was pressed against the wall, looking back towards Dr. Garner's desk. "This. _This_ is familiar," he said confidently.

Olivia snuck a peek over at Dr. Garner, who was still writing on his notepad, but surreptitiously, listening attentively to Lucifer's answers.

Graham frowned at that, like he wasn't expecting that answer. "What part of it?"

"Sitting _here_ ," Lucifer said, tapping the couch. "Talking to someone. I think…they wanted to help?" He shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."

Dr. Garner smiled. "Actually, Lucifer, it does. It's not necessarily a doctor's office you remember, but it could be anything where you were discussing advice – a doctor's office, a friend's home, a church…this isn't an uncommon setting, but it's a good sign!"

"They couldn't have wanted to help that badly," Lucifer said, frowning.

"Why do you say that?" Dr. Garner asked. His hand stilled on the paper, and he dropped his pen. His whole focus was on Lucifer, but he wasn't pushing it. He was just as curious as Olivia was about the strange answer.

"I've been here for three days. And who knows how long I was gone before that?" Lucifer said. "If I meant something to anyone, wouldn't they be… _looking_?" His tone was more aggravated than sad, by it didn't matter. Frustration was simpler to express than the feeling of being utterly alone in the world.

Of all people, it was the detective who answered first. "Not necessarily," he said thoughtfully. "You're a grown man. A lot of people don't get suspicious about men not showing up for a couple of days. Statistically, anyway. You could've been on your way somewhere when you were abducted. You could be hundreds of miles from where you're from, from people who know you and know you're missing – that accent ain't exactly local."

Olivia was impressed. She didn't think that much of the detective, but he raised valid points without sounding like he was trying to patronize him.

"Can you tell us anything about where you might be from?" Graham asked.

The question seemed to catch Lucifer off guard, because he didn't immediately answer. He worked his jaw, opening it only to close it again before he finally spoke.

"I think…" he began, before he paused and cleared his throat. There was a strange, faraway look in his dark eyes that made Olivia want to reach out and hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay. And she wasn't even the hugging type.

"I think I am very, _very_ far from home…" Lucifer finally managed, and she could see the brightness in his eyes. He touched a finger to his cheek, where one lone tear had attempted an escape. He stared at his damp hand in bewilderment, like he couldn't understand why he was crying…

Or like he couldn't understand the _concept_ of crying.

"What makes you say that?" Dr. Garner asked quietly, gesturing towards the table near Lucifer's elbow where the tissue box sat with a slight nod of his head.

Ignoring the tissue offer, still staring at his fingers in awe and wonder, Lucifer very quietly answered, "Because when you asked me about it…all I feel is empty."

* * *

Author's Note: Ta da! Anyway, I know it's been long enough that most people who reviewed the first time forgot, because I know I have no idea when this was last updated...more than 90 days, because I didn't have a saved copy of the last chapter in my doc manager on here. So, apologies, hopefully this makes up for it and of course - read and review and let me know how I did! Because I definitely am supposed to be studying for an equine nutrition exam that I have no illusions of passing.

Also, it's 1AM. Sleep is for the weak.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Ta da...Merry Christmas to you guys who actually follow this (since I'm rather bad about updating). In my defense, I did kind of redo the entire story line so now it's much more supernatural-y themed. Also, for those who also read Damnatio and wanted more of an appearance with Constantine, this is for you. As it turns out, Constantine is one of my favorite characters to write.

On that note - Constantine here is a total mish mash of comic and TV show/Matt Ryan version. Sorry for the people that like the movie, but...eh. I like him more sarcastic than sulking. Also, the accent comment is specifically because the written character is from Liverpool, but Matt Ryan is Welsh, and the writers decided no American could understand the Liverpool accent, and just let him use a generic Northern British accent.

Also, apologies for the fact that this is shorter than every other chapter, but I like where it gets left off. It's a good ending point.

Onward! AND MERRY CHRISTMAS!

* * *

The rest of the interview was unfortunately unhelpful.

Partly because Lucifer didn't remember anything to be of use. It was dark from what little he remembered. There may or may not have been mountains. Or hills. No water. No other roads. No, he didn't remember how long he walked until he _found_ a road, and no, he didn't know how long he walked on it before the police picked him up. No, he didn't know where he was before that.

After about the third time of Detective Graham asking if he was _sure_ he couldn't remember anything, Dr. Garner called an end to the interview, and sent Olivia out of the room to show the detective to the door.

"If he remembers anything, give me a call," Graham said, smiling toothily as he handed her a card. She could see where he'd scratched out his office number and penned in his cell, but she pretended not to notice.

"I'll call the station," she conceded, smiling through gritted teeth. " _If_ he remembers anything."

"Feel free to call me for any other reason, cutie. I live to serve," Graham said. Apparently he forgot he was wearing a wedding ring.

Olivia made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat before gesturing for one of the orderlies to escort the man out.

"Make sure he _leaves_ ," she hissed under her breath. Whatever saving grace she thought Detective Graham had during the interview didn't make up for the fact that he had a smile like oil that made her want to scrub her skin until it started to flay off.

And there was that _smell_. A bizarre smell – not necessarily bad, but nothing she would expect another human being to smell like. He smelled like soot and ash and smoke, like he'd stood inside of a meat smoker instead of a sauna.

Brian, the orderly, only nodded and 'helped' Graham out the entry doors.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, she dropped into her chair behind her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose as she sighed in relief.

"Rough day, luv?"

She groaned, audibly and animatedly at the sound of the well-known voice.

"I'm not in the mood for you and your antics, John," she grumbled, not opening her eyes or even moving her hand from her face.

There was a mocking gasp of indignation. "Oh, Livvie, luv, that hurts. Right here." She could hear his hand clap against the loose fabric of his t-shirt as he clutched his heart.

She could also hear the faint rustle of paper being shifted around.

"Jane stopped smoking, John. She doesn't have any more cigarettes," she said, finally putting her hands down and opening her eyes, just in time to see John snake his hand back over the counter, pretending like he hadn't just been fishing for the pack usually left there by the night nurse.

"What?" he protested. "How could she do that to me? That's…that's just _cruel_!"

" _You're_ not supposed to be smoking either," she reminded. "Especially not inside the hospital, and _especially_ not inside your room."

"Well, you won't let me out to smoke, so my room was all I had left," he pointed out.

"Regardless of your geographic location, Mr. Constantine, you're not supposed to be smoking. Period."

The blonde man gave her a wicked smirk. "Oh no. Afraid it'll mix with my meds and make me see monsters? Oh _no_ …" he drawled sarcastically. "Whatever shall I do."

Olivia tried not to smile, because it only encouraged the already incorrigible man, but John tended to have that effect on people. Which was odd, because on a whole, John was a complete and utter ass.

"I hear we have a new inmate," he said conversationally, leaning over the counter, chin propped on one hand. "Someone possibly from my neck of the woods."

"If you could decide on an accent, Mr. Constantine, I might be able to confirm or deny such a rumor," she said, working hard to keep the corners of her mouth in a thin, resolute line.

"First of all, I'm from Liverpool, and you lot damn well know that," John said, giving her a meaningful scowl. "Secondly, if I talk in my own accent, none of you understand me. Thus, the John Constantine Special was created."

The accent he referred to was a mish mash of almost every British accent American's were familiar with – a little bit of Welsh, a tang of the Emerald Isle, and a heaping helping of Manc. His original accent was Liverpool, and he was unfortunately right. When he was on a really strong dosage of his meds, he dropped the mix n' match and sounded like a drunk John Lennon. _Angry_ drunk John Lennon, and no one could understand him.

"You'll meet him when he's done with his introductory interview with Dr. Garner. You can wait to ask him your own questions," Olivia said firmly. "And _no_ trying to purposely set him off."

John looked affronted. "Me? Do something like that? I would _never._ "

Constantine was a world class liar. He'd also been in and out of mental institutions since he was a child, claiming to see monsters and demons and things that went bump in the night. As he aged, the delusions changed – now he even had a business card proclaiming him to be an exorcist, demonologist, and master of the Dark Arts and he went about fighting aforementioned creatures that usually involved a fair bit of arson.

In a way, he reminded her a little of Lucifer – he could be very personable, he liked to talk, and as long as you stayed off subject of his delusions, he sounded fine. And there was that accent – John's was much rougher, much more Northern England pub crawl than London East Side.

But in stark contrast (at least, so far) Constantine had an explosive temper. He was brilliant, and he knew it, but his delusions made people scoff at him, which in turn would make him angrier, and Constantine _knew_ how to fight. When he went down, it took more than a handful of orderlies to do it. He also had the obnoxious past time of _trying_ to piss everyone in the wing off. His tattoos, scarred arms and hands, roughly shaved angular cheeks, haphazard blonde hair and haunted brown eyes were enough to keep most people away when he wanted to. Group therapy was out of the question because he showed no interest in getting better or pursuing treatment, and it was hit or miss whether he would actually take the prescriptions he was given.

The one thing she always had to remind herself of though – John Constantine was _very_ convincing. When he had an episode, when he would start up his role as _Master of the Dark Arts_ , it was hard to remember he _wasn't_. He knew Latin better than most people knew English. He would scribble complicated occult symbols and patterns across every available surface. The tattoos up and down his arms and across his chest and back – all of them he claimed were warding sigils, or power symbols, or some other _thing_ that helped him in his fight against evil.

"Yes, yes, you would, Mr. Constantine. Don't lie to me," Olivia chided gently. "I've been here just as long as you have. I know you."

"Here I was thinking the ladies loved a bad boy."

"There tends to be a line between 'bad boy' and 'incarcerated serial arsonist'," Olivia deadpanned. "They like _fake_ bad boys. Not guys with rap sheets longer than the LA traffic reports."

"I accidentally burn down _one_ abandoned church, and they never let you forget it," Constantine grumbled. His hand automatically went to his front shirt pocket, searching for a non-existent cigarette.

"You should really consider the nicotine patches Dr. Garner keeps offering," Olivia said.

"If I just wanted the nicotine, that would be fine, but I don't – that's why I _smoke_."

"Just a suggestion, Mr. Constantine," she said. She made a shooing gesture with her hand, which he totally ignored. "I have files to enter. Privacy rules and all that, so if you don't have any pressing matters I need to call one of the nurses for, I need you to go somewhere else."

"New patients, huh?" John said, ignoring the dismissal. "Anyone interesting? Do I get a new roommate?"

Olivia immediately thought of Lucifer and for a brief moment of her own poor decision making, she considered putting Lucifer and John together.

Talk about an incendiary match…

"You're alone by your own request," Olivia said. "You were _very_ insistent, if you'll recall."

By insistent, she meant he would drive his already questionable roommates into fits just to get them out of the room. If they had a solitary confinement, John would happily stay there.

"They were boring. Or worse, they were insane."

She managed to glare down her nose at him, even though he was above her leaning on the counter.

"I'm not politically correct, luv," he said, smiling. "Not now. And I don't see a time in the future when that'll be changing."

"Mr. Constantine," she sighed, leaning back in her chair to look up at him without him looming. "Can I help you with something?"

"You're neither a licensed psychologist, nor an occult specialist, so I highly doubt it," he said flippantly, and then before she even registered what he was doing, he lunged forwards and grabbed the top file.

Olivia cursed herself for forgetting just how quick he was, not to mention how damned nosy, and made to grab for it, but he pulled it just out of her reach.

"John Doe, huh?" John said, tsking. "That's unfortunate, seeing as –" and he stopped midsentence, staring at the open page.

While he was distracted, Olivia immediately ripped it out of his hands, one step away from calling one of the orderlies to escort John back to his room when she saw the look on his face.

"He looks better now," she explained, looking down at the page John had opened. It was the intake photos of all the injuries Lucifer had when he was picked up by highway patrol. She knew from John's own scars and medical file that he was no stranger to violence, but that didn't mean it made it any easier to see on someone else. "Most of the bruising is gone, and –"

"To hell with the bruising," he interrupted. "I want to know about that brand on his hand."

Olivia's sympathy evaporated when she realized it wasn't empathy that made him pause at the pictures. "None of your business," she snapped. "And if you don't want to spend the rest of the day in your room, you'll walk away, _now_."

"Livvie," he protested, bordering on whining. "I just need to –"

" _No_."

"But-"

"I said _no_ , Mr. Constantine."

"But I think I recognize that!" Constantine said, making a grab for the file even as she held it out of his reach.

" _Mister_ Constantine," Olivia growled, her eyes flicking over to Brian as he came back in the entryway, looking to her anxiously. She didn't _want_ to have to have him take back to his room, but she also couldn't have him behaving the way he was and trying to steal patient files.

" _Olivia_ ," he snapped in the same tone. "I'm serious, I think I know what that symbol is, just let me get a better look at it!"

" _John_ ," she began, but turned at the sound of an opening door.

Dr. Garner's office opened, and Lucifer stepped into the hall, ushered out by the doctor behind him.

Constantine stopped dead in his tracks, mouth dropping open in shock.

Olivia's head whipped back and forth between the two of them like she was watching a ping pong tournament.

"I'll be damned," John breathed. "To hell with the brand, I know _him_."

"You do?"

"Yeah," he said, slowly nodding. "That's the Devil…what's he doing here?"

* * *

Author's Note: Okay, so for those of us not in the know, Constantine is an exorcist from the Hellblazer comics, who spends a lot of time in and out of psych wards for most of his childhood, and at one point, committed suicide and was brought back so he's had a personal taste of Hell. At least, that's the version I'm going with here. I'm sort of combining the TV/comic version of him with a version I would expect in "Lucifer", which is why he isn't self-admitted in this story. If anybody wants to catch up on his story line, CW seed is streaming Constantine. Other than that...was it worth the wait? I kind of like that it's slightly more lighthearted, and now I get to have one person not only BELIEVE Lucifer but know a significant amount about the occult/supernatural since Lucifer himself is in the dark in this story.

And again - sorry for the shortness but yay! It's before Christmas! Wooooo! Drop me a line and let me know what you think! Happy holidays to everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

Ahhhh...so you're probably all thinking I was dead, or that I completely forgot this. It was a close encounter with the former, and of course not with the latter. 2018 has been no kinder than the end of 2017, and to avoid lengthy explanations, know that a fair amount of my time has been split between funerals and various hospitals. Also, the delay in this story has honestly been because I have rewritten it enough times I ran out of appendages to count them on. I also thought for whatever reason, I should only work on one fic at a time, and wouldn't you know...that just gave me wicked writer's funk. Anyway - no fear! It has not been abandoned, and if ever I have a story I don't intend to complete, I'll let people know (and probably give like a paragraph about how it would've gone if I wrote it).  
Ahem. Enough talk. Onwards!

* * *

Chloe fought the urge to pull her hair out by the roots. " _How_ does he keep doing this?" she seethed, tapping her pencil against the map of California she had rolled out across Ella's work table.

Several places were circled, x'ed out, redrawn and x'ed over again as they followed empty lead after false promises.

"Well, he _does_ have an undisclosed amount of wealth at his disposal, and he _did_ manage to completely erase whoever he was before he showed up as Lucifer Morningstar, and he _is_ pretty squirrelly when it comes to vanishing acts," Ella listed, ticking off her fingers as she made valid point after point. "And – I'm going to stop talking now, because this is clearly helping nobody, right? Right. Focus on the facts, Ella."

Chloe dragged her palms over her face, resting her elbows on the table. "Which are _what_ exactly?"

Ella's plastered on grin fell a little. "Well…we know he's not at Lux," she began. "We know that not even his awesome scary bartender-slash-ninja knows where he is. We also know she was the one that came to us asking if _we'd_ seen him, and…" she trailed off. "Wow. We know very little, don't we?"

"It's also a pain in the ass to try and find someone with useful information on him," Dan piped up, tossing yet another dossier onto the table. "I didn't think having everyone know you was a bad thing if you went missing, but apparently – dead wrong. That stupid BOLO has made more problems than it's helped, I think."

Chloe sighed, leaning back in her chair as she tried to stretch the kinks out of her neck. "How was I supposed to know _everyone_ knew the guy? I mean, LA and Vegas I was expecting, but New Orleans?" she said, leaning forwards again to shove the documents across the table. "Saint Louis? Boston? _Shanghai_? How the hell did they even hear he was missing?"

"YouTube is a blessing and a curse," Ella said sagely. "One minute you're watching puppy adoption stories, you forget to hit the 'cancel' button for next video, and BAM! Suddenly you're watching missing person reports from other countries."

"Happen to you a lot, does it?" Chloe asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sometimes I have problems sleeping, okay?" Ella said defensively.

"The problem is that no one has any _new_ sightings of him," Dan pointed out. "Everything is from a couple weeks to a couple years ago. There's even this one from a seventy five year old woman in a nursing home who swears she saw him at Disco 9000."

"Disco 9000?" Chloe echoed. "Wasn't that place closed in the 70's?"

"When did she see him there?" Ella asked.

"1976, apparently," Dan explained. "And she swears it was him because he looks exactly the same. Though, I quote: 'much better dressed now'."

Chloe groaned in exasperation, running her hands through her hair, staring at the completely useless piles of paper in front of her. The problem wasn't just that Lucifer up and vanished several days ago, but that he was such a nuisance to try and establish a pattern of behavior for. Normally, missing persons cases involved talking to friends, family, co-workers, ex-lovers – all of which Lucifer had in spades.

For exactly five years, and five years only.

No bank accounts, no addresses, no hospital records, no nothing. Tracking down his birth certificate was a quest she was sure knights of the round table wouldn't have been eager to tackle. Eventually, in a pure _Eureka!_ moment from Ella, they'd found it, but it turned out to be as useful as lead sails and a paper anchor.

His mother didn't exist, and there was no father listed. The hospital it said he was born at was leveled and made into condos. It listed Cardiff, Wales, as his home city and country, but since he had his United States citizenship, they weren't overly helpful beyond the incredulous 'Lucifer Morningstar? What is this, the _X-Files_?' and flat denial of any citizen being born with that name because it was illegal. And as it turned out – Lucifer _wasn't_ a pseudonym or a name change, it was his _actual_ birth name. Which of course begged the question of if he wasn't born in Wales like his birth certificate said because his parents wouldn't have been allowed to give him that name in the first place, then where the hell _was_ he from? How were they supposed to find friends or family if they couldn't even track down what country they might be in?

And _ugh_ …trying to get a straight answer out of Amenadiel was like listening to those long, rambling stories that Trixie used to tell that lost the original subject halfway through the answer. Amenadiel didn't even have a last name, and other than being super cagey when they asked him about their parents because if Lucifer was adopted then that would be a whole new avenue to explore for possible hints to where he'd gone, he had nothing to offer.

And Maze…well. No one really wanted to ask her more than once if she knew where Lucifer had gone, and Chloe admitted there wasn't much of a point. Maze was the one who said he'd gone missing in the first place.

"This is ridiculous. Next time I see him, I'm putting a GPS transponder on him. I get one of those 'find a pet' ones, stick it under his skin, and tattoo 'if found, please scan here'."

"Anything from the hospitals?" Dan asked.

"Nope. No new John Doe's, alive or otherwise in the last 48 hours."

"Has Amenadiel seen him? Or Maze?"

"Not since _last_ time you asked."

Chloe grumbled to herself. "Missing persons find anything."

"Nope. But they did mention that if we stopped asking every ten minutes, they might make better headway."

Chloe let her head drop to the table top with an audible thunk. "Maybe I should just get a Ouija board…"

No one said anything for a long few minutes.

Ella cleared her throat. "Um…how serious are you about that?"

* * *

" _John Constantine_ , don't you _dare_ ," Olivia warned, snapping her fingers to get Brian's attention as soon as the orderly stepped back inside the doors. "I will – oh dammit," she cursed. "Hey, Brian – go get him!"

John was already moving before she even finished her not so idle threat.

This was part of the reason why she was an administrative assistant rather than a nurse. She lacked any form of authoritative air to make anyone listen, and she was too small to be any use if physical restraint was necessary.

In her defense, however, John listened to a grand total of no one, ever.

John skidded to a halt in front of Lucifer, far enough away that Dr. Garner waved off Brian with a slight shake of his head.

Lucifer didn't seem at all bothered by Constantine. Most people, when faced with a man charging up to them, at least flinched or moved away. Lucifer only looked curious.

"Mr. Constantine?" Dr. Garner asked. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Shut it," John snapped, not taking his eyes off of Lucifer. "What are _you_ doing _here_?"

Lucifer blinked owlishly for a moment. "I was picked up off the highway a few days ago, and this is where they brought me."

"No, not how did you get _here,_ here, I mean what are you doing out of Hell? _How_ did you get out of Hell?"

Even as Olivia fought to roll her eyes at the outlandish question, Lucifer didn't seem to think it that odd, because he answered honestly, and without sarcasm.

"Hell?" he echoed. "No, they picked me up near some place called Silverado." He paused, considering. "Michigan seems like a pretty long walk from here. Wouldn't someone have noticed me before I reached California?"

John blinked, momentarily stunned into silence, which Olivia didn't think was possible.

"Mr. Constantine," Dr. Garner asked, "do you _actually_ know this man?"

John shot the doctor a withering scowl. He knew damn well what Garner was implying. Did he know him, or was he 'projecting his delusions'? He'd never bothered to deny the things he saw, or the things he knew. But after Newcastle, he'd wanted nothing more than to be told they _were_ nothing but delusions. That demons and monsters weren't real, and the world wasn't going to Hell in a handbasket, him along with it.

Life, it seemed, had other plans. And as much as he tried to ignore it, there were some things that _would not_ be ignored.

Even with the supernatural world going haywire with the rising darkness, the return of the Brujerìa, John thought there were at least _some_ constants he could count on.

Things like the Devil staying where he damn well belonged unless the Apocalypse rolled around and the End of Days began.

Maybe…maybe it _wasn't_ Lucifer?

Well, there were a couple ways to test a theory.

" _Bagle g-chis-ge ol emna niis_?"

Without batting an eye or missing a beat, Lucifer shrugged and answered back in flawless Enochian. " _Olani gohvlim ol._ "

"What language was _that_?" Dr. Garner asked, looking curious but not sounding surprised that Lucifer answered in a different language. Which meant he'd already known about Lucifer being omnilingual, or, at the very least, multi lingual.

And the plot thickened.

Ignoring the doctor and focusing on Lucifer, who actually seemed interested in the conversation rather than freaked out, he asked him directly. "Do _you_ know what language that is?"

"My first one," he answered, looking surprised. The surprise immediately turned to delight, his lips curving up into a genuine smile. "Ooh, I _like_ you."

In the back of his head, John heard the beginning notes of the _Twilight Zone_ theme. Today was full of 'never thought I would live to see _that'_ surprises. The Devil in the psychiatric hospital. The Devil taking a _shine_ to him, which was surprising anyway because _likeable_ was not how John would describe himself, and neither would any of his friends. And _definitely_ not how his last encounter with 'The Dark One' had gone.

"It's Enochian," he explained. Lucifer didn't seem to understand the significance of that particular revelation, but he seemed to understand that it at least _had_ significance.

"Mr. Constantine," Dr. Garner sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. " _Please_ tell me that isn't one of your made up things."

"If it was made up, why would he know how to answer in it?" John protested, gesturing towards Lucifer. "And he admitted it's his _first_ language."

"Where is it from?" Lucifer asked eagerly, taking a step forwards. "Do you know where I'm from?"

What the…

"Language of the angels, mate," John explained, a feeling of black dread welling up in the pit of his stomach.

Lucifer was one of the most powerful beings in the universe. He was an _arch_ angel. Not just any archangel, either, but the Fallen One. In some circles, people and beings were afraid to even speak his proper name. He'd seen the intake pictures. Someone, or _something_ , had done a serious number on an _archangel_. The bruises may be faded, but clearly something was still wrong.

" _Ipsum revelare_ ," John muttered, holding up his hand, palm out and slightly down so Brian the Bouncer didn't think he was about to slap Lucifer across the face.

Nothing happened.

 _Less_ than nothing happened.

Lucifer didn't flinch. No wings, no hellfire eyes, no burned and scarred face used to terrify the denizens of Hell. Lucifer looked like a normal human being. Which was _impossible_. Scratch that. Not impossible, because clearly that's what John was looking at, but so improbable that John didn't want to consider the ramifications.

Belatedly, the image of the burn on his hand upon admittance came to mind. Something about it looked familiar, yet…he couldn't remember why. Without thinking, John lunged forwards before Brian or Dr. Gardner could stop him and grabbed Lucifer's hand, twisting it so that it was palm up, and Lucifer hissed slightly in protest of the odd angle, and quite probably the way John pushed his fingers back to reveal the mark.

Unlike the rest of his injuries Lucifer had upon intake which were faded or just plain gone, the burn looked _worse_. The skin around it was puffy and red, cracked and shiny looking. The image was more pronounced than the original pictures, more easily defined from the rest of the painful looking wound. Tendrils of black snaked out from the middle of Lucifer's palm, as if there was some sort of underlying infection spreading from the symbol.

It hadn't been there in the original photo. Which meant something was not only wrong, but it was getting worse instead of better, unlike the other superficial wounds.

"C _onstantine_ ," Gardner warned, but John paid no attention.

"Sorry, mate," Constantine muttered. "But it's necessary." Before anyone could stop him, he clasped Lucifer's hand between his own, pressing down on the brand with as much force as he could. " _Re inter spiritus tenebrarum, et nunc, mitte te umbra coram me. Exercitus praeter revelare_."

There was a momentary flash of white light, and John felt the heat between their skin ratchet up to unbearably hot, like he'd placed his hand to the inside of a heated stove, but he kept his grip, repeating the words once more.

 _Come on, you bloody –_

There was the roar of wind in his ears, a gust of frigid air that numbed his face. Thick, inky, oily darkness pressed down upon with like a physical weight and the smell of something left to rot made him gag.

He could hear just barely above the rush of wind – maybe it was just the blood in his ears? – and at first he thought it was just the staff yelling at him.

It wasn't until he actually _concentrated_ on the noise that he realized Lucifer was screaming.

And so was he.

It _burned_.

Just as suddenly as whatever _it_ was came on, it was gone, leaving such an absence of malice and _cold_ that John felt his knees buckle in relief. Across from him, blood pouring over his lips from his nose, Lucifer collapsed backwards into Dr. Gardner and Olivia's grip, his skin pallid where it wasn't covered in blood and Constantine wasn't sure if he was even still alive, except for the ragged heaving of his chest as he tried to gulp in much needed air past bloodied lips.

It took him a moment to realize he was no longer gripping Lucifer's hand, because the burning heat was still there, like an iron pressing into his skin.

There was another voice he could still hear, above the shouting of the orderlies even as they hauled him to his feet, swearing violently at him. He couldn't find the energy necessary to fight back or even protest. He could only hold his hand out and away from him, afraid to look at it because surely it must've burned itself away by now.

The voice was talking to him. It wasn't in English, but he recognized it, though his brain was slow to translate.

 _The Morningstar is ours_. _Do not interfere again, or it will be more than a warning_.

John Constantine is pretty sure he manages to tell them to sod off before he passes out.

* * *

So you've probably noticed...the time line for this is alllll sorts of hinky. Malcolm is alive, Ella exists, no Cain, yadda, yadda. Welcome to the biggest hurdle I encountered trying to write this - the when factor. So, assume it's like season 2, but without Mum/Charlotte. Mostly because I just wanted an excuse to try writing Ella. So Lucifer has no wings, no one is in the know, Ella exists, and to be honest - I'm pretty sure that the rest of the precinct doesn't know Malcolm isn't dead either. I think I like him better as an unknown fly in the ointment. Anywho. So, SO sorry for the delay - I make no promises about updates because last time I did that, karma promptly bitch slapped the hell out of me and then kicked me down a flight of stairs. As always, if compelled to do so - read and review! (honest though, they give me motivation and ideas).


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